I cannot sing,
So weary of life my heart is and so sore
Afraid. What harp-playing
Back from the land whose name is Never More
My lost desire will bring?
* * * * *
These words she said
Before the Pheidian Fates. "There comes an end
Of love, and mine is fled:
But, if you let me, I will be your friend,
A better friend, instead."
Was it her own,
The voice I heard, marmoreal, strange, remote,
As though from yonder throne
Clotho had spoken, and the headless throat
Had uttered words of stone?
I sought her face;
It was a mask inscrutable, a screen
Baffling all hope to trace
The woman whose passionate loveliness had been
Mine for a little space.
Thereat I rose,
Smiling, and said--"The dream is past and gone.
Surely Love comes and goes
Even as he will. And who shall thwart him? None.
Only, while water flows
And night and day
Chase one another round the rolling sphere,
Henceforth our destined way
Divides. Fare onward, then, and leave me, dear.
There is no more to say."
* * * * *
Harsh songs and sweet
Come to me still, but as a tale twice told.
The throb, the quivering beat
Harry my blood no longer as of old,
Nor stir my wayworn feet.
Yet for a threne
Once more I wear the purple robe and make
Sad music and serene
For pity's sake, ah me, and the old time's sake,
And all that might have been.
For Love lies dead.
Love, the immortal, the victorious,
Is fallen and vanquished.
What charm can raise, what incantation rouse
That lowly, piteous head?
Why should I weep
My triumph? 'Twas my life or his. Behold
The wound, how wide and deep
Which in my side the arrow tipped with gold
Smote as I lay asleep!
Across thy way
I came not, Love, nor ever sought thy face;
But me, who dreaming lay
Peaceful within my quiet lurking-place,
Thy shaft was sped to slay.
When hadst thou ruth,
That I should sorrow o'er thee and forgive?
Why should I grieve, forsooth?
Art thou not dead for ever, and I live?
And yet--and yet, in truth
Almost I would
That I had perished, and beside my bier
Thou and thy mother stood,
And from relenting eyes let fall a tear
Upon me, and my blood
Changed to a flower
Imperishable, a hyacinthine bloom,
In memory of an hour
Splendidly lived between Delight and Doom
Once when I wandered from my ivory tower.